I came closer to the table with the woman. She was with a guy, their heads inclined, laughing. I’d nearly reached them. I got a shot of excitement because yes, it was Layla. She and the guy were consulting one of their trivia cards.
But my excitement quickly tapered. My dad had said to look at the daughter. Here I was looking at her, while she played an innocuous game of trivia. What was there to see?
I stopped slightly behind a table of people. I was about to turn away when I focused on the guy. Wait a second. I knew that guy. Or I thought I did.
I took another step closer, careful to stay obscured by the surrounding table.
Yes, I knew that guy. Yet he was not so much a guy; he was a man.
That man was Zavy Miller.
62
In the cab on the way back to my place, I texted Mayburn. Need background info on Zavy!!
Then I texted my dad. Anything on Layla? He answered quickly. Nothing of interest.
My head reeled with a million questions. What were Zavy and Layla doing together? He had been a father-figure to her, from what I’d heard, stepping in when Valerie’s husband, Brian, was sick and after Brian died. So was Zavy just supporting Layla during a tough time? Taking her out for a night to get her mind off her mother’s murder trial? But then why had Layla told her mom she was going out with friends, plural? Or maybe it was simple—maybe she was going out with friends and they had cancelled, and she’d called Zavy. But they had looked…intimate. Like people on a date.
“What is it?” Theo asked. He slid closer in the backseat of the cab and put his hand on my knee.
As it always did, his touch calmed and inflamed me all at once.
I told the cabbie to drive slow as he neared my house. I scanned the streets for any members of the press.
Please, please, please have lost my address, I willed the media. Or please think this isn’t a big enough story.
Wish granted. No media outside. Maybe they were all home analyzing Q’s data.
I called Maggie, but it went right to voice mail.
Anxious to do something, anything, I started getting ready for bed. Theo trailed behind me. A minute later, when I opened a seldom-used drawer, I came across a piece of paper.
“Sam’s,” I said, looking at it. An old practice schedule for the high school rugby team he worked with.
I felt Theo’s silence before I really noticed the gap in the air.
I looked across the bed. He was naked—so big and tall and perfect-bodied and naked—that I just stared for a second. He could always reduce me to silence.
But then I noticed he was just looking at me sort of strangely.
“What?” I said.
He moved, slid under the sheet and pulled it up to his chest.
“What?” I said again.
“You keep bringing him up today. Sam.”
I got in bed and pushed our bodies together. But Theo only looked at me, expressionless, then moved his beautiful self slightly away. “We’ve never really talked about him before,” he said. “But it looks like it’s time to do that.”
“I know.” I thought about it for a second. “You know we were engaged. Then he disappeared last year. Then he came back, and we couldn’t get it together so we broke up.”
Theo studied me, almost sadly. “Why couldn’t you get it together?”
I thought back to that time. “Too much had happened for me to forget and move on right away. I wanted us to work at getting our relationship back together, but Sam wanted us to be together already. He wanted it to be done and for us to be perfect the way we used to be.”
Theo looked at me some more. “I assume you’ve had therapy for this.”
I laughed, but he didn’t laugh with me. “Are you serious?” I asked. “What do I need therapy for?”
Theo didn’t respond.
“Look,” I said, “he disappeared. I understand now why he did that. Why am I the one who needs to get therapy just because I couldn’t trust him right away?”
Now he answered fast. “Because it’s the same thing that happened with your dad. It seems to me you’ve got some recurring issues flowing around here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your dad disappeared. He ‘died’ very violently and very suddenly when you were little. Then later you met Sam. It sounds like he was one of the first guys you ever really trusted or fell in love with.”
I nodded.
“And then he disappears suddenly, just like your dad. It makes sense that when he came back you wouldn’t trust him. And you wouldn’t trust the whole situation. You don’t trust him to stick around.”
And I’m not sure I trust Sam now—Sam, with a four-million-dollar property he has no right to possess.
But I wanted to trust Theo. I needed to, if we were going to keep going, keep being together. And so I told him everything.
I told him about Sam getting engaged to Alyssa but willing to call it off. I told him about seeing Sam for drinks at the hotel and the Panamanian document. I left out the part about making out in the hotel room. If Sam and I had ended up sleeping together, I would have had to tell Theo, but I wanted to keep the conversation about Sam’s return to my life. And what I was going to do about it. Theo needed to know. He deserved to be a part of that decision.
Theo watched me as I talked. When I finished, he reached out a hand and smoothed my hair away from my face.
“Are you pissed off?” I asked him.
He shook his head no. “I’m sad you couldn’t tell me before.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“No, don’t be sorry. I understand it. I just wish I could have been there for you before now.”
I scooted closer to him and wrapped my arms around him. “Thank you,” I said into his chest, my words muffled.
“I still think you need therapy.”
“You think I’m crazy.”
“Hey, therapy is not just for people who aren’t friends with their head. I’ve had lots of therapy.”
I pulled back a little to look better at his face. “I’m surprised. Why?”
He stared at the ceiling for a second like he was trying to remember. “When I decided to leave college after my freshman year to start my company, my dad said it was okay, me dropping out. He was really supportive. But my mom was scared for me. She said the only way she would support me was if I went to a therapist for a while.” He shrugged. “I really liked it. I figured out a lot of things about myself.”
“Like what?”
“Like sometimes I’m trying to be like my dad. For a lot of different reasons. Sometimes I’m trying to be like him so I can give my mom some piece of him, even though he left her. Sometimes I’m trying to be like him because I want him to notice me and I wish they hadn’t split up. That he hadn’t left. Sometimes I’m trying to be like him because he’s smart, and I can learn a lot.” He shrugged. “Just things like that.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah, the process is kinda cool.”
“No, not the therapy. I mean you’re interesting.”
He looked at me. “You think so?”
“Yeah, I think so. I think you’re a renaissance man. You’re big and strong and manly and you do all that surfing and heli-skiing and whatever. And you’re smart, too. Not just book-smart, but smart enough to start and run your own company.” I started twirling a strand of my hair. “And then you’re sweet, too, and you know when to admit you need help, like the therapy, and you’re cool enough to make sure you got something from it. And you’re such a great boyfriend that you just listened to me tell you my ex-fiancé wants to get back together with me.”
He took the strand of hair, coiled it softly in his finger, then gently placed it on my head, away from my face. I almost said that Sam used to do that. It would have been true. But I did not want to talk about Sam anymore. I needed to talk to him about the document. I needed to decide what to do about that whole scenario. But I didn’t want to deal with
any of that now. And Theo seemed okay with that. He kissed my forehead, stroked my hair again.
Then he stopped. “Hey,” he said, “did you just call me your boyfriend?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
He said nothing.
“That all right with you?”
“It’s cool. And I guess that would mean you’re my girlfriend.”
I liked the sound of that. “Yes, that’s what that would mean.”
He kissed me then, really kissed me, and there went the world. “My girlfriend,” he said into my mouth, like he was trying it out. “My girlfriend.”
63
I woke up at the crack of dawn, slunk downstairs and peeked outside, relieved that once again the press was nowhere to be seen.
I ran upstairs, got ready and was just about out the door again, dressed in a short-sleeved lavender suit, when Mayburn called.
“Hey,” he said. “Can you grab coffee so I can tell you about the background checks?”
“You know I don’t do coffee.”
“You’re a freak.”
I snorted.
A sigh from Mayburn. “Fine, can you grab a green tea with soy milk and Splenda so I can tell you about the background checks?” He paused. “Or are you still drinking decaf tea?” he said with scorn.
“I’m off the decaf wagon because of the trial.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Twenty minutes later, Mayburn and I were tucked into two purple velvet chairs in a Starbucks. The window behind us looked onto the intersection of North Avenue and Wells Street, traffic starting to pick up as people headed to work.
Mayburn placed a slim stack of paper on the table between us and patted it. “Aside from this, there are no records for Zavy Miller.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have him back to…” Mayburn’s voice trailed off. He lifted a few sheets of paper and flipped through them. “Let’s see, I have documentation on him marrying Amanda. That’s the first year I can find anything about him. That’s the first year he got credit cards, a very large business loan, and then a home mortgage with Amanda. Before that, it appears, he never existed.”
I felt my face crease with confusion. “Xavier Miller can’t be that common of a name.”
“It’s not. What I found was easy to locate. I just can’t find him before that time.”
I picked up the other papers, glanced at them, saw notations for Xavier J. Miller. “What’s the initial J stand for?”
“Jennings.”
“Not common, either.”
“Nope, but even with that name, my search results are the same. Xavier Jennings Miller appeared in Chicago, at least on paper, ten years ago. He met Amanda a year later and then from what I can tell they got married pretty quick.”
“Yeah, that’s what he testified to at trial. Where did he live before that?”
“I don’t know. There’s nothing. But I’m trying some other avenues, and I’m hoping to have something soon. I just wanted to tell you what I knew so far.”
“Ask my dad to get on this.”
“I don’t think I need him here, I just have to—”
“Seriously,” I said, interrupting him. “Get him on it. He’s lived under different names, lived so many different lives. If anyone can figure out who Zavy Miller really is, it’s him. Plus, there’s something else.” I told him about my dad being suspicious of Layla, and about seeing Layla and Zavy together last night.
“Wow. I’ll talk to Christopher.” Mayburn thought about something. “Sorry about what I said the other night about him being a cold fish.”
“It’s okay. Wouldn’t you be, too, if you’d gone through what he had?”
“Yeah. Probably.”
I thought of the two of them on the courtroom bench, sitting near each other. “How has it been? Working together?”
He nodded, a sort of surprised expression on his face. “Gotta say, your dad’s good. He notices everything, and he seems to be able to slip into places without people really noticing him.”
I thought about how my father had watched me for much of my life. I’d never noticed him, either.
“I guess that’s true,” I said. “Well, except for Dr. St. John. He sure noticed him.”
“Yeah, we both went up and down that neighborhood. Didn’t think we’d need to be too quiet. You hear anything else from the good doc?”
“Not so far.”
“We’re keeping an eye on him.”
“Thanks.”
“So. I haven’t heard from Lucy,” Mayburn said.
I blinked at the topic change, then, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too.” None of his usual sarcasm rose to the surface. His face actually looked pained.
For the first time since I’d known him, I leaned forward and touched John Mayburn. We had never hugged, never even shook hands except the first time we’d met. We existed as two people who worked, in some ways, very intimately with each other, but rarely had any physical contact.
But I saw now that he needed support. And maybe affection. I put my hand on his. I saw him fight the instinct to pull away. When he didn’t, my heart ached for him.
“Thanks,” he said, looking down at our hands. “Sorry I keep bringing this up.”
I gave his hand a squeeze, then sat back. “I’m not. I understand. Hell, I might understand better than anyone. Sometimes, you can be the most perfect couple and still have the worst timing.”
Mayburn nodded. “You make any decisions about Sam?”
I thought about Theo, about our talk last night. “Not officially. But things are really good with Theo. And I don’t know if I need the complications of Sam and all his craziness.” And yet with those words, I felt a deep pull of sadness. It was so damned confusing. “I have to talk to Sam about that document, but I’ve been so busy with the trial. And I guess I’ve been putting off confronting him. No matter what happens with us, I want to think of him as a good guy. The way I always have.”
“Yeah, it’s amazing when you think the person you’re with is one of the best people you know. I think Lucy’s the best.”
I patted his hand again. “I know you do. You just have to decide—do you have the time and the patience to wait for her?”
“What if I wait and she still doesn’t want a relationship anymore?”
“I don’t know.”
“In the end, all I really want is for her to be truly happy.”
I thought about telling him what Lucy had said to me about wanting to “go backward,” to meet some of Theo’s friends so she could feel younger and forget the decidedly adult struggles she faced in the future. Then last night, she had said she wanted to be alone.
“There is no way around the timing issue,” I said to Mayburn, “and it seems she wants some room. If you push her right now, you’ll lose her. Period. You’ve found the person for you. I think she has, too. But it’s apparently too overwhelming for her to move from one intense relationship situation into another. It would be overwhelming for the kids, too. If you love her, think of her and the kids right now. And if ultimately you can’t, then…” I shrugged. “I don’t mean to make light of this, but if you can’t, then you can’t.”
“I can,” he said simply.
And that, I thought, was the real definition of love.
64
Even after meeting Mayburn, I was still going to be early for court. I just hoped the media wasn’t early, as well. I hopped on the Vespa and headed west on North Avenue, then south on Ashland, speeding toward 26th and Cal.
Damn. Two news trucks were parked right in front of the courthouse. I stowed the Vespa in the parking garage and yanked the Bulls sweatshirt out of my bag, pulling it over my helmet. Once again, I looked like a jackass. Once again, I didn’t care because I sailed past the trucks with no problems. I yanked off the whole ensemble as soon as I was through the doors, and thankfully, there was no sweat attack this time.
When I got to the cou
rtroom, Q was there, dressed in a navy blue suit and a yellow tie.
“Q!” I called.
He hugged me quick when I reached him at the front of the courtroom. I wanted to tell him about Sam, but he held up a hand. “Not now,” he said. “Lots to do…” Then he moved at lightning speed about the place, as if he had spent a lot of time in a criminal courtroom. He played with two laptop computers on our counsel’s table, then he jumped up and adjusted audiovisual equipment and a screen that had been erected on the wall behind us, facing the jury. The state’s attorneys came into the courtroom and eyed him warily.
I introduced Q as our “trial graphics expert” then turned away before they could think of something to object to about his presence. I lowered my voice and pointed to some equipment. “Where did you get this?” I asked Q.
“From Maggie’s law firm. It’s even better than the stuff we had at Baltimore & Brown. They must have paid top dollar for it and never used it.”
“You know, we only have a few witnesses and then closings.”
“I know. You should’ve called me earlier.” He tried to sound irritated, but his face wore a smile. I could tell he was glad to be working. “Here’s how it’s gonna go,” he said. He rattled off a bunch of exhibits that he’d loaded into the machine.
When he began muttering at the machine, apparently having trouble with a document, I looked at my watch. There was time to make the phone call.
Following the path Maggie had led us the day before, I went behind the judge’s bench into the warren of halls back there until I reached the empty bullpen. I stared at it for a second, saying a silent prayer that Valerie didn’t have to live the rest of her life in a cage. And yet, if my dad was right—that she was guilty—then maybe she deserved such a fate. I felt overwhelmed suddenly. I didn’t like—didn’t want—to be the arbiter of someone’s future. I could almost hear Maggie then. You’re not deciding innocence or guilt. You are giving your client the best defense, a defense everyone in this country is entitled to.
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